


Temps

by Mad_Max



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Pocket Watches, Very short Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:25:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Max/pseuds/Mad_Max
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a headcanon of bhaer's, that Enjolras, in ever form, every reincarnation, every century, has a watch of some sort on him. Set in canon-era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bhaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhaer/gifts).



On sixth day of the sixth month of the year 1775, Jean-Antoine Enjolras the First wound his pocket watch. On the sixth hour of the sixth day of the sixth month of the year 1775, the watch began to tick. It ticked through his wedding, through the birth of his first son and that of his last.

When, on the 18 December, 1793, Jean-Antoine Enjolras the First felt the cold kiss of death on the nape of his neck beneath the guillotine, this watch ticked. On the third January, 1806, as Jean-Antoine Enjolras III was pushed, screaming and wrinkled like an extraterrestrial from his mother's womb, it ticked. It ticked on the 18 June, 1815, as Fortune took her leave of Napoleon and his troops during the slaughter at Waterloo; it ticked as the youngest Enjolras began his education proper in the back room of the Café Musain with a group of young Revolutionaries he would one day lead to battle. It ticked in his coat pocket the bleak but radiant morning of Lamarque's funeral, and then in his trouser pocket as he himself was sent to his grave in the wine shop, Corinthe, entwined at the hand with a glassy-eyed Grantaire.

On the fifth day of the sixth month of the year 1832, the flickering glow of a candle reflects off the lenses of a spare pair of glasses that shall never be worn again, two small children feast, unwatched, on a soggy pastry in the Tuileries, a wife wakes up beside a husband she might have lost, Enjolras, pinned to the wall by the force of the eight bullets that have closed the chapter on this life, smiles yet; the watch ticks.


End file.
